


Haven

by Daughter_of_the_Mountains



Series: Nadadel [15]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Also A Mention Of Child Abuse, Dwarves Love Their Children, Even Adult Children, Even Teen Children, Fluff, Gen, Happy Ending, Making Up, Maybe I Exaggerate, Mention Of Arguing, Not from Óin Though, Protective Dwalin, Sleepy Dwarf Teens, They Love Their Little Ones, snuggles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 00:48:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5688154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daughter_of_the_Mountains/pseuds/Daughter_of_the_Mountains





	Haven

It has been eight days since Bâqil went missing. There is a silence over the village now, as there was when a Dwarf had stolen all four of his children and vanished. For months, their mother wandered the streets forlornly, calling for her children. Her youngest had eventually turned up on with the guardsmen, unharmed, crying for her amad. The dwarrowdam never learned what became of her three healthy sons but she took her blessings and moved on, knowing, perhaps, that her husband would never harm his children

He is keeping his word to Thorin. After all, Fóli is an adult and he's trustworthy enough. He doesn't ask for his help when stealing. In fact he doesn't even mention his 'craft', so nobody can complain. But people do. The most vocal about his displeasure about his friendship with Fóli is Óin who, every morning without fail, reminds him what Thorin said about staying with an adult he trusts, tells him to go nowhere near Fóli and then takes his leave.  
He wouldn't mind, but every time he is caught with Fóli he usually ends up in a screaming match with his brother and they always make him feel unsure about being with his nadad, so he sleeps alone a lot now. He feels lonely at night and each day he recognizes the distance that lay between them after Adad died. At least he's not been walloped again.

"Fóli?" He says, when they are in the shade by the woods. "Do you know about the people who took the little boy?"

"Everyone's heard about the Assassins." Fóli answers.

"Why do they do what they do?"

"For wealth, mostly. There are some sick people in that clan who genuinely _enjoy_ what they do."

"The prince says they won't hurt him."

"They won't." Fóli says. There is a tone in his voice that indicates finality and Glóin knows not to ask any more about them. 

The days are growing warmer. By the river he can see a black-haired lad holding onto his dark-haired father's hand as he skims stone. The sun's light shines silver on the flowing water and the sky is a bright, warm blue. It's so peaceful that he can't believe somewhere a dwarrowdam has had the misfortune to have lost her child. But the child is alive, unhurt. That is what must be remembered.

* * *

 

 Óin arrives home early. He heard from Mister Lówi, their neighbour, that his nadadith had been with that thief again and he sighs loudly. "Why doesn't he listen to me?" He asks the empty hallway. "He'd listen to Adad!"

Maybe he's been too angry about it. What he needs to do is be calm. He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. Is it so bad he's with a thief? _'Yes,'_ answers a tiny voice in his head. _'Because there could be a_ next _child to be stolen and it might be_ him.'

There's a knock at the door and he goes to answer it quickly, hoping it is his little brother. He almost sighs in disappointment when he sees Lówi, holding a brown paper bag under his arm. "Sorry to interrupt," he says, which Óin instinctively knows is a lie. "I've got something to help you get the message across to your brother. Mind if I come in?"

He's curious now, peering at the bag, wondering what wonderful tool lurks within. He stands back to allow Lówi in and leads him to the kitchen where they can sit.

"i imagine he's giving you hell." Lówi says, placing the bag on the table where Óin notices it is more circular shaped than rectangular. Not a book then. "My son's 49 now and growing into that horrible age. Luckily, I've just the thing to help remind him what's right and wrong and I don't mind lending it to you for the night."

Óin knows Lówi's son. Not personally, but he came in six months ago with a violent gash on the palm of his hand which needed to be stitched up. _'Was using a big knife to cut up bread,_ ' the lad had offered when asked for an explanation for the origins of his injury. 

Lówi upends the bag. Out spills a leather coil with a thick rubber handle. Óin feels sick. He begins to realise what this _monster_ meant by having something to _'get the message across'._ Yes, he wants his brother to listen to him, but he would never, _could_ never _whip_ him. He even felt bad for giving him a single slap. Causing cuts and weals... It makes him angry to think about it. "Leaves a nice mark," Lówi says. "Been using it since he was 30."

_'That poor boy.'_ Óin thinks. _'Nobody deserves_ this _. If only he'd_ said _. If only I asked further. But how could anyone who dares to call themselves a parent do_ this?'

 "You're impressed," Lówi says, half-grinning. "So is he when I use it! You can use it for tonight but I want it back for tomorrow. Send your brother with it."

Óin doesn't say anything at first. He stares at the thin coil of leather, wondering if he is in fact having a bizarre dream. But he is not dreaming, much as he wishes he was. He meets the eye of Lówi who looks quite pleased with himself and shakes his head. "I can't accept this."

"Of course you can."

"You misunderstand me. I _won't_ accept this instrument of torture. The fact you use _it_ upon your own _son_ is sickening. No, leave _it_ there." Lówi had been reaching for it. Now he stops and stares at him, mouth agape. "You are _not_ taking that home with you to beat your poor child some more. Tonight when my cousin visits, I'll show him _that_ and tell him what _its_ purpose was and he will go to King Thráin's son, the prince who rules us. Did you know the word of a prince overrides the choice of a parent? When your son shows his scars, the whole village will know your shame." Óin stands up and glares coldly down at him. "Get out of my home. I will never harm my own brother and it is not even your place to suggest how I deal with his actions."

He watches him leave. He feels shaky and sinks back into his seat. He wants to be with his brother, know he's closeby and be able to hold him. The whip on the table looks like it can _cut_ skin, especially skin that is still toughening. "Who would whip a 30 year old _boy?"_ He wonders aloud. They've both felt the belt and that had certainly stung, but not at 30 years old. They'd both been over 60 and it had been but once. He wonders about Lówi's lad's mother and what she thinks of this. Maybe she doesn't even know.

The door opens. He hears the shuffling of feet as his brother comes in. His dark eyes widen, and he steps back. Óin follows his gaze to the leather whip coiled up on the table and quickly understands his fear. "No, no," he says, standing up again, holding up his hands. "Don't be scared, nadadith, it isn't for you, I promise! I'm not going to whip you. It's alright."

Glóin looks doubtful and very cautiously picks up the sweeping brush. With slow, hard pushes, the whip is poked off the table where it clatters and lands in an undignified heap on the floor. He then, almost as an afterthought, throws the brush on top of the whip.

Óin opens his arms and receives an armful of clingy little brother for his troubles. He rests his chin on the top of his fiery head and runs his hand down his back checking for injuries he knows aren't there. He then hugs him properly and kisses his forehead gently.

"Why is _that_ in here?" A muffled voice asks.

Óin pulls back to let him breathe but still holds onto him. "A brute came here with it. Said he used it on his own son! Can you imagine Da using a whip on us?"

"He'd _kill_ us!"

Óin huffs a humourless laugh. "Too right. I thought I would kill the bastard..bringing that in here and suggesting I whip you!"

"You're telling me that you aren't tempted?"

"No," Óin says firmly. "I am not tempted at all. What kind of gêmadad makes his baby brother bleed? I don't want to hurt you. I only gave you a swat on the spur of the moment and it didn't hurt that much, did it?"

Glóin shakes his head and clings to him. "Are we arguing again tonight?"

He knows that Óin knows, it seems. He thinks back the past eight or nine nights and shakes his head. "No. Truth be told, I'm tired of arguing and so are you. I can only ask that you make sure you stick close to the village centre where other adults are in case the worst does happen."  
To his great relief, his brother doesn't argue. He nods his head as though relieved himself and leans against him. Óin hears a soft yawn and feels him burrow close. He smiles at the trusting gesture and gently presses his forehead to his brother's. "Let's get you on the sofa, you little sod. Then you can sleep a while. I'll study on the floor beside you."

"I'm not a baby."

"I never said you are. But I distinctly heard a little yawn coming from you and Dwarves your age need sleep to help grow properly."

"Da slept _way_ too much when he was my age, then."

Óin can't help grinning. "Yes, Da slept too much." He leads him to the sofa and makes him lie down. He pulls the knitted blanket off the sofa's back and tucks it around his little brother. "Close your eyes, lad. Maybe this will be the sleep to help your beard grow!"

There's a soft grumbling but he does close his eyes. He snuggles into his pillow and before long he's snoring quietly. Óin smooths his hair and fetches his study books. He sits on the floor by the sofa and starts to read, all the while listening for his nadadith's breathing.

* * *

 

Bâqil is finally home in Ered Luin. He was dumped unceremoniously in front of the prince's halls and now he's with a lady who has rather messy dark hair tangled in a bun. She wears a simple dress of blue like the royals wear so he guesses she might be one of the royal ladies. She's feeding him honey biscuits when a pair of doors open. He flinches and looks toward her, hoping she might protect him. She smiles gently and he wants his amad more than ever.  
"Bâqil!" Suddenly he's faced with a pair of dark blue eyes. There are lots of guardsmen in the room and he starts nibbling his nails anxiously. "Sweetling! Are you hurt anywhere?"

Bâqil shakes his head. "Nn-nn!"

"Where were you?"

"Dunno." He can feel her warm hand stroking his hair and feels comforted. "Sorry."

"It's not your fault." The blue-eyed Dwarf says gently. "Can you tell me about any people you saw?"

Bâqil shook his head. "Nuh uh. They had hooded cloaks with dark green clasps on them. I didn't see any faces."

The blue-eyed Dwarf nods his head. "Alright. Did you hear them say anything, laddie?"

He did but he blushes. "One.. One said a _bad_ word!"

"Can you tell me what this bad word was?"

"The..the one for a lady." Bâqil glances worriedly at the woman behind him. What must she think?

"It's alright," she says gently. "It isn't rude if you tell us what it is."

"He said.." Bâqil takes a deep breath. "Whore."

"Wh-" the blue-eyed Dwarf starts to say but is cut off with a sharp hiss of _"Thorin!"_ from the woman. "I see. Why did he say this bad word, little one?"

"He said I was the wrong one. He said he was looking for the..the bad-word's child."

"Right." Thorin says. He is frowning and Bâqil worries he's given a bad answer. Thorin gently holds his hand. "Don't worry, little lad. You're not in trouble. Do you remember much about what happened?"

"They kept me locked away. Some nights I could hear a baby."

Thorin looks confused. "A baby? Are you sure?"

Bâqil looks up at him. "I _live_ with a baby. I know what one _sounds_ like."

"He turns into an idiot after midnight. Ignore him."

_"Dís!"_ Thorin protests. He looks at him with his deep blue eyes. "Go on, sweetling. Ignore her."

Bâqil notices Thorin's hand reaching for Dís' hand and continues. "One day.. I think it was today, someone came in. He stared at me for ages and then he called some people in. He called them some very very bad words and then said he was looking for the bad-word and the freak's child, not me." He looks up at Thorin and Dís. "Who were they looking for?"

"They won't find who they're looking for." Thorin says solemnly. "Soon they'll give up. I'll send you home with a few guardsmen." He gently ruffles his hair and lifts him into the arms of a guardsman with a shock of white hair, his redheaded companion reaching over to gently boop Bâqil's nose. As he is carried out, he sees Thorin telling Dís; "We need to get in contact with _her._ They've arrived earlier than we'd thought they would."

The only thing Bâqil can think of, however, is how glad he is to finally come back home. He will soon be safe in his mother's arms and Thorin must be right. Nobody can wait forever.

* * *

 

There's a knock on the door at nine.  Óin abandons his books and finds Dwalin on the doorstep. "What are you looking so happy about?"

"Bâqil has been returned." Dwalin answers, which is probably the best news anyone has had all day. "Some of the men are bringing him back to his mother right now.

"Praise Mahal! Is he alright?"

"He's unhurt. They must have known they got the wrong one."

"Do you know who they are looking for?"

Dwalin shakes his head. "The important thing is there was not even a bump or bruise. And they seem to have fed and watered him as well."

"You really do not know who they are looking for?" Óin asks. 

"They come from the Northeast. Who knows what the monsters want?" Something doesn't quite ring true, but Dwalin has no reason to lie, so Óin doesn't question any further. He remembers the leather coil and points toward it. Dwalin scowls. "What in the world do you have that for?"

"Mister Lówi offered it me. Been using it on his own son for nearly 20 years. Tell Thorin, will you?"

Dwalin seems as though he hasn't heard. Instead he glares violently down at the whip, looking for all the world as though he plans to march to Lówi's and belt him in the face with it. "The _monster."_ He growls, picking it up by the handle between his index and thumb as though he is afraid it will contaminate him. "Uncle Gróin could be strict at times, but he would never have _dreamed_ of using a _whip_ of all damned things! I'm going to _kill_ Lówi, I really am."

"You'll have a long line of people to get past." Óin remarks.

"Yeah, too right. I'll take him down the cells tonight and Thorin can decide what to do with him tomorrow. Remember, tomorrow is Praises Day, you have to be at the temple fairly early."

"A certain nadadith of mine is going to be thrilled!" 

"Considering his _girlfriend_ is going to be there," Dwalin says with a smirk, "I think he will be thrilled, very thrilled indeed!" He stuffs the coil in his pocket, grimacing, and moves to the front door. "I'll see you on the morrow, cousin!"

The house feels safer now that  _thing_ has gone. Praises Day is always a cheerful affair although rival families always roar out the songs as though they are battle hymns and it always makes the ears ring. Óin goes upstairs to his room, smiling to see his brother has already commandeered most of the bed. He moves his arm and shuffles underneath him, gently shifting him so they're both comfortable. Glóin is sleeping but he is still alert enough to cling to him and mumble something intelligible before nuzzling into his shoulder. Óin rests his chin on the vibrant red locks and feels his eyelids grow heavy. He's missed him, even though he's a clingy little sod who ends up with all the blankets and sometime snores directly into his ear.

_'I won't argue so much with him again,'_ Óin thinks tiredly. _'It's not worth either of us losing sleep over.'_


End file.
